


Born to Stone and Peace

by Silver_pup



Series: Take a Shot [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Dwalin, Brotherhood, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Dwalin needs a Hug, Family Feels, M/M, POV Dwalin, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6195082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_pup/pseuds/Silver_pup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows that the second son is the pillar that supports the eldest against the world. But all Dwalin knows is that pillars always survive what they support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born to Stone and Peace

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : I do not own any familiar characters/settings/plot featured in this story. They all belong to (most likely rolling in his grave) **J.R.R. Tolkien.**

 

* * *

 

Dwalin is the second born son and therefore the spare.

This is not to say that he was not loved or wanted by his parents. From the day he is born to the day they die, his parents adore him completely. His mother reads to him every night before bed, and takes him with her when she works on her craft. His father patiently teaches him how to hold an axe and swing it, and carries him on his shoulders when he walks through the markets. His parents love him, and Dwalin will go to his grave believing this.

But that doesn't erase the truth: Dwalin is the second son. He is the second heir, the backup plan incase anything happens to the firstborn. This is a general practice among most races, one of the few universal trends that can overcome species and genders. But some races—like Men—take this to mean that the second son is not as important as the first son, and therefore disregard the second as nothing. Dwarrows—who are not blessed with an abundance of children—do not believe this. To them, the second son is more than just the spare. He is the pillar that supports his elder brother against the world, the foundation that holds the house so it can stand tall and proud. Without the second son, the first son can never hope to be strong on his own.

Perhaps some sons would resent this duty but Dwalin is not one of them. Dwalin knows that he is meant to serve, to hold others up against the storm so they can reach for the sky. He is proud of his role and takes joy in it.

It is not until he is older that he realizes exactly what it means to be the pillar of a home.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin only reads Bilbo's letter once before he burns it to ashes.

"You're stupid," Nori tells him as he watches Dwalin toss the letter into a burning brazier. "Sooo stupid. Don't you know what that is?"

"Nothing I need," he replies, watching the parchment curl up and turn black before falling into dust. While he understands why such a letter would be important to some, he finds no use in it. Dwalin will write his own future with his own hands.

Nori—because he's _Nori_ —just clucks his tongue and shakes his head. "Stupid."

Dwalin ignores him, and later kicks him in the back of the knee when walking down a flight of stairs. Nori falls and curses him the whole way down, and Dwalin grins as he listens to it.

Balin's letter is not so easy to handle.

Dwalin reads it over and over again until he can close his eyes and picture the words. He would have burned it like his own but Balin won't let him. His brother stubbornly holds onto it and tucks it away in his coat against his heart. Dwalin hates the obvious significance behind such a move.

"You're gonna die," he reminds his brother, staring into Balin's dark eyes. They have the same eyes and it is one of the few traits they share. "Ya know that, Bilbo _told_ ya as much, even described your fucking _tomb_ in _detail_. And ya _still_ wanna go?"

Balin just shrugs. He's always shrugging things off, trying to seem so strong and unbreakable. It makes Dwalin want to punch him in the mouth. "Everyone dies eventually, Dwalin. If not in Khazad-dûm, then in another mountain. There's no avoiding it."

 _Yes, you can_ , he thinks to himself, grinding his teeth together. _You can live if you just stay_ away _from Moria._

Balin reaches out and flicks him in the forehead. "Stop that before you break another tooth," he orders like Dwalin is still the brat who used to follow him around.

He snarls back but stops grinding his teeth. "I'm not letting ya do this. I'm not letting ya die for a fool's dream. Not _again_."

Dwalin remembers Azanulbizar clearer than he remembers living in Erebor. He remembers the rush of battle, the sound of his blood pounding in his ears, and the feel of his axe going through flesh and bone. He remembers the heat on his skin, the sweat on his back, and the dust in his eyes. He remembers the bodies that stretched as far as the eye could see, and the smell of decomposing flesh under a hot sun. But the thing he remembers best is how cool Balin's hand felt on the back of his neck, and how Thorin had sobbed into Frerin's bloody curls as his only brother died in his arms.

Balin's eyes flicker and Dwalin wonders what he thinks of when he recalls Azanulbizar. "Is it really a fool's dream to want to reclaim something of our heritage?" his brother asks quietly with a weight to his words that Dwalin can't understand. "To reclaim something of our past?"

 _It's not_ _ **our**_ _past_ , he thinks but doesn't voice it. "Why do you need to reclaim it so bad? Why can't Erebor be enough for ya?"

Balin remains stubbornly silent. Disgusted, Dwalin leaves him to his letter and stupid dreams of a kingdom neither of them have ever seen.

 

* * *

 

Years ago, when he was still young and cocky and full of piss, Dwalin had sworn an oath to follow Thorin to the ends of the world. It was a vow made after watching the prince take on Azog alone _and_ go on to take on forty more Orcs. It was a promise to follow and protect this wandering king that bled himself dry everyday just to feed his people. It was a silent oath that he made to himself alone, and Dwalin intends to keep it to his dying day.

But nowhere in that bloody vow did he swear to become Thorin's fucking _nursemaid_.

"He's never going to forgive me," the King Under the Mountain whines—actually _whines_ like a fucking pup still on the teat—as he lounges on his cot. The Battle of the Five Armies is over but they're all still reeling from the consequences. Thorin in particular is still healing, and has been bound to bed rest by order of Óin. Dwalin—on account of Dáin being a vindictive _asshole_ —is the one who gets the honor of guarding him.

Fucking. Hell.

"I swear you weren't this pathetic a year ago," he comments, ignoring the useless lump of flesh that calls himself a king. "Did the gold fever melt your balls off along with your brain?"

Thorin glowers at him in response. It is his trademark glare that has made Dwarrow and Man alike wet themselves in fear. But Dwalin has spent the last year watching Thorin make a fool of himself over a fluffy Hobbit that barely reaches his collarbone, so the look falls rather flat.

"I am your king and elder cousin. I can put you on latrine duty," warns Thorin when he realizes his glare isn't making Dwalin wallow in terror.

"And I can still switch shifts with Kíli," he retorts, unbothered by Thorin's threat of shit duty. "Think he's up now. Want me to call him over?"

Thorin's glare goes up a notch. His cousin has many weaknesses but the greatest one will always be his sister's sons. And Dwalin—who was raised by _Balin_ , the most subtly manipulative fucker _alive_ —has no problem exploiting this. It is really Thorin's own fault for making his doting so obvious that a blind fool could pick up on it.

"He's going to hate me forever," Thorin declares, returning to his previous subject of whining over trying to glare Dwalin into submission. "He will never forgive me for this. Never! He's going to return my bead and go back to the Shire and will never speak to me again."

Dwalin just stares. "Are ya fucking serious? Have ya forgot these past months? Have ya forgot _who_ Bilbo is? Or what he's done for us?"

Thorin flinches. "I have not forgotten," he says quietly, pushing back his messy and greasy hair from his drawn face. His cousin looks old and tired in a way that only comes after life has beaten you down, and Dwalin hates how familiar he is with such a look. "I don't deserve him. Bilbo has done more for me than I could ever repay. How could I ever ask him to stay with me after betraying him so cruelly?"

Dwalin doesn't know the answer to such a problem, but he does know Bilbo, and so he knows exactly what their Hobbit will do once he returns. "You underestimate him," he says, nudging Thorin's thigh with his foot. "Our burglar is made up of a different sort of stone from us. He's gonna forgive ya and then marry ya, and continue givin' the rest of us heart attacks with his stupidity. So stop crying like a little bitch, and get better so we can go drag him back."

"You're so encouraging," Thorin shoots back, but the harsh edge to his face eases up. "For you loyal words, I'm making you his guard when he comes back."

Dwalin pretends that his flinch is from his wounds and not the wave of horror that swamps him.

 

* * *

 

To the surprise of no one but Thorin, Bilbo forgives the king and agrees to marry him. Thorin spends half the time in a daze like he can't believe his luck, and the other half silently having a meltdown over his newfound engagement status. Dwalin—because he is a good and loyal kin to his king—doesn't mock him over any of this. Just smirks smugly and collects his winnings from the betting pool.

The boy is a surprise but Dwalin tries his best to take it in stride. It gets easier when the lad—named Ester or Ellis or something else flowery and Elven sounding—opens up a bit more, and stops treating them like a plague. But what really cements his acceptance of the boy is when he spots him trailing Thorin with a near replica of his fur coat and matching scowl.

He's not too surprised when, shortly after, Bilbo takes up drinking.

 

* * *

 

Rebuilding Erebor is... hard.

Not that he wasn't expecting it 'course. The kingdom is a mess of dragon shit and corpses and so many fucking broken staircases that it is a wonder the whole damn city just didn't collapse on itself. They have to start off slowly, and work from the outside in with most support going into reconstructing the foundations. It takes five years before anything is stable enough to even walk on.

After that constructions takes off like one of the fire poppers that the wizard likes to play with. Everyone is just so damn eager—so full of energy and ambition and hope—to rebuild Erebor into something worth protecting. It surprises him, somewhat, until he figures out that most of the enthusiasm is from the younger generations. The young ones never knew Erebor until now so they can't remember her in her glory days. All they have are their own visions and hopes and stories of days long pass to drive them.

Dwalin—who can't remember much about his own parents let alone the kingdom—thinks that may be best. Some things should just stayed dead and buried.

 

* * *

 

A decade after reclaiming Erebor, Balin makes the decision to try to reclaim Moria.

It's... not a big surprise, not really, but it still makes Dwalin feel like someone punched him in the chest. He's always known his brother's ambitions and obsession with the dead kingdom, and he always knew that eventually Balin would pull something like this. But anticipating something still doesn't make ya ready for it.

He's mad at first when he hears it. How can he not be? But the anger doesn't stay—not like it used to when he was younger—and in its place all he feels is _tired_. He can't make Balin do anything he doesn't want to do—no one has that power, not even Thorin—and he knows his brother is going to choose Moria no matter what he says. Erebor is just not enough to make Balin want to stay.

( _Dwalin_ is not enough to make Balin want to stay)

" _Why_? Why can't this be enough for ya? Why do ya gotta reach for something so far away?" he asks Balin later when his brother finally grows the balls to confront him.

"I don't know," Balin confesses, and Dwalin can see that it's true from the cracks in his eyes. "I don't know why I can't let it go. I don't know why I can't be at peace with what I have. Maybe I'm broken inside, or I'm missing some important piece. Maybe I'll never be satisfied even if I _do_ reclaim Moria and become her king and ruler—I don't know! I just know that _this_ is my dream. _This,_ more than anything, is what I want to pursue in life."

 _Selfish_ , he thinks, shoulders dropping along with what feels like most of his heart. _You're so selfish ya bastard_.

"You're chasin' after a dream, Balin," he warns, watching his only sibling. "Some fairy tale dream that's just gonna get ya killed."

Balin closes his eyes and nods. "I know."

"I'm not gonna give ya my blessin' for this," he adds, shaking his head. "I'm not gonna forgive ya even if ya don't die."

Balin just nods again. "I know."

Dwalin knows it too. Without thinking, he reaches out and pulls Balin close and gently bumps their foreheads together. "Please, just come back," he pleads, and he hates that he's been reduced to fucking begging but Balin has never played fair. "Please."

Balin—the bastard—doesn't say a word.

 

* * *

 

The night before Balin is set to leave, Dwalin locks himself in the palace cellar and begins to systematically drink his way through the collection. When he's about a quarter into it—and just finishing off some horse-piss wine from Gondor—Dáin sashays in and plops himself down next to Dwalin against the wall.

Dwalin can only turn and stare. "Whaddya want?"

Dáin ignores his question. "Make room and give me that bottle," he says instead, nudging Dwalin in the ribs with his pointy elbow.

He instinctively hides his Mahâl-awful wine on his other side. "No! Get your own!"

"I would but you appear to have beaten me to it," retorts Dáin, looking around the cellar covered in empty bottles with an eyebrow raised high. He is always doing that, the judging fucker.

"Why are ya even _here_?" he demands, sneering at his cousin.

Dáin wrinkles his nose and points above them. "I can't handle them anymore. They're singing songs and telling stories about Moria, and I just—" Dáin stops abruptly and shakes his head. "Just give me the damn bottle."

That's when Dwalin finally gets it. Wordlessly, he hands over the bottle of wine. Dáin takes it with a nod, and begins to gulp it down like a thirsty Man would with water. Dwalin looks away and focuses his gaze on some smudge on the stone floor. He doesn't particularly like Dáin. Never has and never will. He especially despises the way the entire family treats him like the sun shines out of his ass. Maybe some of it's jealousy, maybe it's his own insecurities, but Dwalin just knows that he dislikes the smug fucker. But liking someone has nothing to do with understanding them.

Dwalin doesn't remember much of Frerin anymore—just impossibly long hair the color of honey when the sun shone through it—but he remembers what his death brought. He remembers Thorin's sobs and the way the blood had drained from Balin's face. He remembers how Dís had fallen to her knees as if she had no life left in her, and how Óin's shoulders shook from his muffled tears, and that Glóin didn't speak to anyone for days. But what he remembers best is how the light in Dáin's eyes—a light blue like the rest of Durin's Sons—went out like a candle in the breeze, and never really did flicker back to life.

Dwalin doesn't like Dáin very much—possibly even hates him—but right now Dáin is the only one who understands him. The only one who can understand his grief and worry and anger. He's the only one who can still see Azanulbizar's shadow in Balin's footsteps because for Dáin it still stands as a memorial to all that he lost. And isn't that just fucking terrific that the one cousin he wouldn't mind never seeing again is the very one that gets him the best?

Fucking Mahâl has a twisted sense of humor.

"You have terrible taste in wine," Dáin eventually remarks.

"I'm not drinking it for the taste."

"You have terrible tactics for getting shit faced drunk."

Dwalin snorts and reaches for a new bottle. "Just shut the fuck up and drink your wine. Bastard."

 

* * *

 

The months that pass after Balin's departure are... bleak. Dwalin tries to distract himself, tries to find meaning in protecting his king and country again, but all he feels is empty inside. He wonders if this is what Balin has felt all these years when thinking of Moria, and then gets angry because it makes him feel _sympathetic_ to the fucker.

Balin doesn't deserve his sympathy; not when he's left Dwalin behind to deal with his ghost.

Glóin struggles too but he has the benefit of his wife and son to help him through it all. Ori and Nori have each other to lean on, and Bofur and Bombur just deal with it because they have always been the strongest of them all. The only one who seems to be just as bad off as Dwalin is Thorin, but even he gets over it eventually.

Dwalin is the only one who is left flailing; trying to kick his way to the surface but just can't seem to figure out which direction it's in.

 

* * *

 

Nearly a year after his brother leaves, Bilbo approaches Dwalin with an offer.

"Dwalin," he calls one day, gliding through the hall with remarkable grace considering his feet are the size of two swans. "I need to have a word with you."

Dwalin stops dutifully and waits for the former burglar to catch up with him. Most of the Dwarrows around them stop to give the Consort a bow of respect, but Bilbo just waves them off with a roll of his eyes. Over a decade and the Hobbit still can't get with proper protocol. Not that Dwalin can hold it against him; he's really no better.

"What is it?" he asks once Bilbo catches up with him.

"I have an assignment for you," the Hobbit replies, snagging his elbow and dragging him along. "Ori has been given the task of reestablishing the old treaties. I would appreciate it if you would go along as his guard."

Dwalin just stares. "What."

Bilbo raises his brows slowly. "Were my words too big? Shall I use pictures instead?"

"That's not what I meant and ya know it," he grumbles, nudging the Consort Under the Mountain with the elbow he has taken prisoner. "I meant why me? Nori has plenty of spies to send with 'um. And Ori is hardly some wilting flower. He can take care of himself just fine."

"I know that. I'm asking because I believe it would be best for you to go," replies Bilbo. "Dwalin, you've been lost ever since Balin... left for Moria. I think leaving the mountain and taking a break would be good for you."

Dwalin feels thrown for a moment before latching onto the first feeling that grounds him. "I don't want to go," he says, and then immediately cringes at how childish he sounds.

Bilbo snorts, and then flashes him the sort of smile he usually saves for Kíli when he says something stupid but in a cute way. "I know you don't. But I'm not asking," the ex-burglar says, and pats the elbow he's still holding hostage.

Dwalin can only glare at the Hobbit. He wants to argue and protest this stupid task but he knows he won't be getting out of it. Not only because Bilbo technically outranks him now—and Thorin will take his side anyway because he's whipped—but because Bilbo actually intimidates him.

Bilbo, in Dwalin's humble opinion, is the scariest bastard he has ever met, and that's including the flying worm and walking corpse with the ring fetish. And it's not because Bilbo holds some sort of particular divine power or great skill in war, and it's not even because of his memories of a world that could have been. Nah, what terrifies Dwalin most is Bilbo's unfaltering perseverance and sheer loyalty to those he cares about. Mahâl wept, the Hobbit nearly _destroyed_ the _world_ just to keep Thorin and Fíli and Kíli alive. How could that _not_ fucking terrify him?

"I'm not gonna forget this," he warns the Hobbit, giving him a side-eye glare because he still has a reputation to maintain.

Bilbo—the crazy old bastard—just keeps smiling. "I'm sure you won't, Dwalin."

 

* * *

 

"I'm sorry you got stuck with me," is the first thing Ori says to him the day they are to leave.

"Not your fault," he replies, shrugging one shoulder. "Bilbo is just a sneaky and manipulative little runt."

Ori flashes him a smile—still as crooked as it was when he was a lad hiding behind Dori—and tosses his long braids out of his eyes. "He is _very_ sneaky," he agrees, nodding. "I think he's been teaching Kíli too. I don't know if I should be scared or not."

Dwalin thinks of Kíli—charismatic and smarter than most people give him credit for—taking up Bilbo's methods, and tries not to whimper at the destruction that is likely to follow. "Be afraid. Nothing good can come from those two teaming up."

Ori—because he has as much sense as Nori around a locked chest—simply laughs.

 

* * *

 

The first place they are to visit turns out to be Gondor.

"Bilbo suggested it. He says the regent there might listen if we go to his eldest son first," explains Ori atop an open wagon. They have joined a merchant caravan since it's easier and safer to travel in large groups. Plus, Bofur had insisted, and Dwalin has always had a hard time telling Bofur no. He thinks it's the dimples.

"How far are ya planning to go?" he asks the younger Dwarrow from his own pony. "Back to Ered Luin?"

Ori shrugs one shoulder. "Maybe. Fíli gave me free reign to do what I think best."

"And what do ya think is best?"

Ori shrugs again. "I don't know," he replies, looking over to Dwalin to flash him a smile, "but I'm looking forward to finding out!"

Next to Ori, the driver turns and gawks at the lovely Dwarrow, and Dwalin stares until he catches his eye. When he does, he gives the driver the same stare he would give an Orc. Predictably the driver blanches and quickly turns his attention back to the road.

"I saw that," Ori says quietly when he looks back to him. He looks exasperated but not surprised. "You don't need to defend my honor, Dwalin. I can take care of myself."

"I know. I was there for them battles too," he reminds the younger Dwarrow. "But Bilbo assigned me to guard ya, and that's what I'm gonna do."

Ori's mouth twists into a frown. "And what if I don't want your protection? What if I want others to look at me?" he challenges, arching his brows. "I _am_ of age you know."

Hearing that, Dwalin—stops. Stops and takes stock of the tall and lean Dwarrow. It's true that Ori is no longer the wide-eyed youth hidden by layers of wool and books that he remembers. He is taller now—as tall as Dori and just as lean as Nori. The baby fat is long gone and now all he can see is the strong jaw, firm nose, smooth forehead, and chiseled cheekbones. Ori has always been lovely—all the Ri brothers are, it's their curse and blessing—but it is only now that Dwalin _really_ takes notice.

It's... a startling realization.

"It's hard for me to see ya as an adult," he admits softly. "I've known ya since you were just a lad."

Ori's green eyes go steely. "Then I guess I'll just have to change your mind."

 

* * *

 

Gondor is a city of white stone that could be beautiful if it wasn't filled with suspicious Men. Dwalin growls and glowers for the whole visit and refuses to relax until they leave the city. Ori gives him knowing looks but doesn't try to make him relax. Maybe he senses the danger too; Nori was certainly good at it so why wouldn't his brother be too?

From there they head to Rohan with another caravan, and Dwalin spends the journey watching Ori write between every breath. He reads it sometimes but can never make sense of it. Ori writes beautiful words with so many hidden meanings in each vowel that Dwalin can't begin to see them all. But he likes to try, and Ori enjoys listening to his thoughts, so he doesn't see any reason to stop. Eventually Ori even begins to tell him some of the secrets behind his writings; painting such vivid images that Dwalin can see it all when he closes his eyes.

"You're gifted," he tells the younger Dwarrow one day. "Ya have real talent with words. I admire ya for it."

"You are gifted too," replies Ori, flashing him a smile. "You can fight like no one I have ever seen, and out glare even Thorin on his worst days. I wish I was so skilled."

Dwalin laughs. Ori seems to be gifted in making him laugh because it seems like that's all Dwalin does lately. It's not a feeling he's familiar with, but he doesn't mind. He thinks Balin would approve.

 

* * *

 

Ori likes to collect beads of every color and every shape no matter the material used, or how well it is made. Each village they pass through he makes time to stop and collect a bead or two from the locals. He keeps them in a small leather sack tucked away in his coat; as safe and guarded as any Dwarrow with their treasure.

"Why do ya like those so much?" he asks one night, watching Ori sort through the beads methodically. "Ya don't wear any of them so what's the point?"

"I collect them for the story each one tells," replies Ori, glancing up at him under thick lashes. Dwalin doesn't think he's ever seen anyone with such long lashes as the scribe. "Each bead is a memory I treasure. Don't you collect anything? Besides scars."

Dwalin snorts, and lightly kicks the smirking Dwarrow in the thigh. "I collect the teeth I knock out of cocky little brats," he replies blandly. "Balin was the one who liked to keep stuff. Used to collect maps when we were young. Pinned them up around his rooms and would point out the places he was gonna visit."

"I remember that he had a large one back in Ered Luin," admits Ori with pursued lips. "I used to study it when Dori dragged me along for their weekly tea meetings. I wonder whatever happened to it."

"He hawked it for funds when we set out for Erebor," Dwalin replies, thinking back to the map in question. It had been an elegant old thing that took up a whole table when unfolded. Balin had spent years saving up for it and had looked honestly pained to give it up. Dwalin had always wished he had been able to buy it back for him.

Ori's face falls, and he looks back down to the pile of beads in his lap. "That's a shame. It was really beautiful," he says quietly before glancing up again. "Do you really not collect anything? Anything at all?"

He does, actually, though he's never really shared it with anyone. Mostly because it's a silly hobby but he knows Ori won't care. "Stories. I collect stories," he admits, and tries his best not to cringe at how childish he sounds. "I can carry them with me wherever I go and I don't have to worry 'bout losin' um."

Ori's face goes... soft like the sunset from the Misty Mountains or some other poetic bullshit he doesn't get. It's a nice look on him, a look Dwalin hasn't seen before, and it makes a heat unfurl in the pit of his stomach. He stoically labels it as gas and proceeds to ignore it.

"Have I given you any new stories to carry?" Ori asks, blinking his fucking ridiculously long lashed eyes at him.

"Yes," he replies without thinking, and then feels his face heat up. But he soldiers on and adds, "How can I not with you writin' every minute? Don't ya know you can take a break, lad? The words ain't goin' anywhere."

Ori doesn't reply but he does smile, and Dwalin tries his best not to think about how beautiful Ori's smiles always seem to be.

 

* * *

 

Halfway through the journey from Lothlórien—because Fíli is on a mission to drive his uncle to an early grave—Ori kisses him and Dwalin lets him. It's soft and sweet and a little surprising, but not really, because Dwalin isn't like Thorin, and can see that something has been growing between them for a long time. So he stands there and let's Ori press against him, and tries not to shiver from the heat rising in him.

When Ori pulls away, Dwalin forces himself to meet the scribe's gaze, and doesn't flinch at the emotion he sees there. Ori is beautiful and kind and clever and strong and so much more than Dwalin ever deserves. He knows the truth—he _knows_ it, he _does_ —but he can't help but _want_. Wants to run his hands through that thick hair and trace the line of freckles down his neck and lean over his shoulder to read whatever haunting tale Ori thinks up.

Dwalin has never wanted anything so much before in his life as he does Ori, and for a second he wonders if this is how Balin has felt for Moria all these years.

(It makes him feel unfairly sympathetic to the old goat)

"If you don't want this, then tell me now," says Ori, his green eyes fever bright and tight with resolution. "Because if you don't, then I'm not letting you go. I've loved you for too long and I'm too greedy to share."

 _That's because your brothers spoiled you_ , he thinks fondly, and then bites his bottom lip to keep from smiling. Instead he says: "Nori is going to rip me apart for this."

"He'll have to go through me first," Ori promises, and then kisses him again and again until Dwalin forgets every name under the sun.

 

* * *

 

They are in Ered Luin when Thorin's letter comes.

Dwalin doesn't have it in him to be surprised.

"He died taking down Durin's Bane," Ori reads to him from his perch on their bed. His hair and beard are loose and hang down past his thighs in a riot of waves. "Bifur died too, and Óin has taken charge until Lord Dáin's son arrives to take over for him. Dori has already returned to Erebor."

"Good. I'm sure Nori was lonely without 'um," he says, staring out the window at the town below.

Ori frowns and stands up to walk over to him. "Dwalin, are you all right? Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nuthin' to talk about. Balin is dead. That's that."

Ori arches an eyebrow. "Is it?"

Yes. No. He doesn't know anymore.

"I should have been there with him," he eventually says, and hates that his voice cracks in the middle of it.

Ori snorts. "Why? So you could die too?"

He shakes his head in disagreement. "To support him. To _protect_ him. It was my duty and I failed it."

"Your duty is to your king first. Balin understood that. Why else would he not ask you to go?" Ori retorts.

Dwalin can only shake his head again. Ori doesn't understand, _can't_ understand because he is not the second son like Dwalin. For once he finds himself wishing Nori or Bofur were around; they understood his position so much better than his lover could.

"The second son is the pillar that supports the first," he recites from memory. "I should have supported him better."

Ori's green eyes turn glacier. "No. Stop it. Balin made his choice and accepted it. You don't get to take responsibility for _his_ decisions. Not in this."

"He was my only brother," he protests, but Ori's eyes remain firm.

"I know, and the pain will probably never really fade," his lover says, voice softening even as his eyes stay the same. "But you're not alone, Dwalin. Your life is not over. You still have a home to support."

Ori then wraps his arms around him and Dwalin can only lean against him in defeat.

Balin is still dead.

 

* * *

 

A week after getting Thorin's letter, two more letters arrive from Dori. The first is addressed to Ori and recounts his time in Moria and eventual journey back to Erebor. Ori tears up a bit while reading it but still smiles when he reaches the end. The second letter is addressed to Dwalin, and is written in Balin's overly perfect handwriting. It has only one sentence.

"What does it say?" Ori asks, holding one of Dwalin's hands in his.

"It says: 'I'm sorry for not being a better brother,'" replies Dwalin, titling the letter down for the scribe to see.

Ori frowns and looks back at him. "Was he? A bad brother?"

Dwalin shrugs and looks back at the letter. He recalls the hours Balin had once spent teaching him how to use an axe, and the patient summers he spent teaching Dwalin how to read because he kept inverting the letters. He remembers how firm Balin's hands had been as he led him through the streets of Erebor the day Smaug came, and how Balin had carried him on his back all the way to the Iron Hills. He thinks of all the thousands of moments he had shared with Balin—talking and fighting, laughing and crying, living on even though by all rights they should have died long ago—and can only scoff.

Balin had been many things in life, but a failure of a brother was never one.

"Stupid bastard," he says fondly, and then burns the letter and kisses Ori senseless.

 

* * *

 

 **T** he **E** nd

 

* * *

 


End file.
